Nonstandard Issue
by Sister Coyote
Summary: A lot of things in the army weren't quite as Cloud had predicted they would be. Cloud, Zack. Gen, backstory.


Sometimes Cloud thought the best thing about being a SOLDIER was that you'd never have to do fifty pounds of laundry, or peel four hundred turnips, or dig a trench for six hours _ever_ _again_.

He'd never expected to be stuck doing . . . well, basically, chores, when he'd signed up. But bringing civilians on to the base was expensive and required a lot of complicated security checks, whereas enlistee labor was cheap, so every hour of training, drilling, and practicing was matched by another of serving food, lifting wet laundry, or hauling gear. To be honest, most of the work wasn't bad. He'd grown up helping his mother with household chores, and chopping fifty pounds of onions was different than chopping two onions only in scale, not in nature.

Digging trenches was harder. Not, he told himself, because he was physically incapable of the task—although he had, honestly, never done anything as strenuous as dig for eight hours at a stretch—but because he wasn't used to the environment on the plains outside Midgar that was home to the training grounds. After eight hours in the driving sun, his skin scorched furious pink even through the military-issue sunblock, and the members of his squad called him "Lobster," although not, to his surprise, cruelly so. Though he had promised himself that he would not be homesick, he couldn't help thinking longingly of the cool winds that blew through Nibelheim's valley, of the tall trees and cold springs, of the deep omnipresent shade of the mountain.

After the first bad burn and resulting peeling and soreness, his platoon leader changed his shift digging the trenches to evening. It meant he didn't get heatstroke, but it also meant he was digging on his own, supervised by a patrolling warrant officer who checked on his progress every twenty minutes. Sweat ran into his eyes, and his arms burned with deep muscle-ache, and with every shovelful of dirt he told himself that he was building strength that would help him swing a sword when he became a SOLDIER. He was daydreaming about that—wearing SOLDIER blue, with a sword on his back, and in his eyes the rakish uncanny gleam that marked them as _special_, set apart—when his shovel hit a buried pocket of air, and half the trench wall collapsed and slid down around his ankles.

"Crap," he muttered, shaking dirt out of his boots—and that was when the groundserpent boiled up out of its collapsed tunnel and launched all eight scaly feet of its body at him, spurs first.

He would later assure himself that he didn't so much scream as shout, and anyway, anyone could lose their footing when buried ankle-deep in loose soil. The serpent gathered itself, hissed, and lunged. He saw a brief flash of needle-fangs, claws, serrated neck-spurs, and reacted without thinking. The flat of his shovel made a wet smacking sound when it hit the groundserpent's head, and the thing collapsed slowly into the loosened soil.

"Unconscious" wasn't the same thing as "dead," though, and that combined with the cold-shock adrenaline still flooding Cloud's body made him whack it a few more times with the shovel, just to make sure. He was shaking a little, and didn't stop until he heard an amused voice saying, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, kid. I think it's dead. Don't need to add insult to injury."

He spun around and found himself looking straight up into the unnaturally luminous blue-purple eyes of a SOLDIER crouched on the edge of his trench. "I heard you yelling," the SOLDIER said. "Thought you needed help, but it looks like you've got the situation under control."

"I, uh," said Cloud, still shaky, and then "—Sir! I mean. Yes, sir." He did his best to come to attention and salute, which was tricky when half-buried in a collapsed trench and clutching a shovel as if it were a lifeline.

"As you were." The SOLDIER sounded amused. "You've got a good arm, recruit."

"Yes-sir-thank-you-sir," Cloud blurted, flush with sudden pleasure.

"Zack," the SOLDIER corrected. "And you are?"

"Strife. Private Cloud Strife. One hundred and ninth division, fifty-sixth infantry brigade."

"Whose platoon?"

"Second Lieutenant Tauror, sir."

"Hm." The SOLDIER—Zack—smiled. "You do have a good arm, Cloud. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

Cloud didn't manage to keep the huge grin off his face. "Thank you, sir."

He saw Zack—SOLDIER First Class Zack, who by all rights should have been as far removed from him as the stars, at least until he made it into SOLDIER himself—a few more times after that, usually in passing. It was peculiar how _friendly_ he was, almost superhumanly so. He was nice to everyone. He seemed to know three-quarters of the seven-thousand-man base by name. But that just meant that what he'd said to Cloud—_good_ _arm_, _kid_; _I'll_ _keep_ _an_ _eye_ _on_ _you_—probably didn't mean anything. It was just part of what he was coming to recognize as Zack's huge, glittering constellation of goodwill.

He was nonetheless surprised when Zack sought him out on the target range on his day off.

"What're you doing here?" Zack asked. "You're off for today, yeah?"

"Practicing," Cloud said. Marksmanship wasn't one of his strongest points, and he wanted to sharpen it up, to increase his chances of getting tapped for SOLDIER.

Zack groaned. "Cloud, Cloud, Cloud," he said, despairing or perhaps mock-despairing—Cloud couldn't tell which. "You gotta take advantage of the chance when it comes up. You never know when you'll get shipped out and won't see your favorite bar again for weeks."

"I don't have a favorite bar," Cloud said. "I haven't been in to Midgar yet. Except the recruiting office, and the train pickup."

"That's a _crime_," Zack said. "This close to the most exciting city on the Planet, and you spend your days off doing marksmanship drills?"

"Sometimes it's sword drills," Cloud mumbled.

"Put down that rifle," Zack said, in such a crisp superior-officer tone of voice that Cloud obeyed without thinking. "I am taking you into Midgar," he continued, "and you are going to enjoy it or I'll know the reason why. Clear?" By tone of voice, he could have passed for one of the sergeants who had broken them in as new recruits, but he was grinning.

"Yes, sir," Cloud said, and fought the urge to salute.

"Zack," Zack said. "Call me Zack."

It was less than an hour from the training camp to Midgar. He expected Zack to take him immediately to a bar, but instead Zack took him on a whirlwind tour of Midgar—with special emphasis on the stuff belowplate. He watched as Zack charmed the man who sold them sandwiches (thick steak-and-onion-and-pepper-and-cheese things, like nothing Cloud had ever seen), and flirted gently with the girl who sold them coffees. Zack also graciously ignored the fact that Cloud was too awed by him to say much of anything half the time except when, prompted by self-consciousness at his own silence, he started to talk, said too much too fast, and tripped over his own tongue. It was just _bizarre_, to be hanging around a SOLDIER—a first class!—as if they were friends, as if it were completely normal.

Zack did laugh at Cloud's confusion, dawning understanding, and total, blushing embarrassment, over the exact nature and purpose of Wall Market.

"Nibelheim isn't a very, a very _large_ town," Cloud explained.

"_Really_?" Zack drawled, and then laughed again. "Neither is Gongaga."

They did, ultimately, wind up at a bar. Zack bought him a beer, which he toyed with more than drank. Finally, cautiously, he said, "Sir?"

"Zack," Zack said. "Yeah?"

"Why did you bring me here?"

"'Cause I've seen too many people wind themselves up 'till they cracked, prepping for the SOLDIER exams. It's not helpful, and it's not worth it. Besides—I thought you ought to get a chance to see Midgar."

"But, I mean—why _me_?"

"I meant what I said, about keeping an eye on you. I think you show a lot of promise. Besides—I like you."

Cloud's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Why not?"

Cloud spluttered. "That's not an answer!"

Zack leaned back. "Seriously. Why not? You think I get shot up with mako, I can only like other people who've been shot up with mako?"

"That's not what I—"

"Then, seriously. What's the problem?"

"You don't even _know_ me."

"Well, yeah. I mean, that's usually why you go to a bar and shoot the shit and have a few beers with somebody. To get to know them."

"But—"

"Go ahead. Say it."

"What?"

"'You're impossible.' Or maybe you'd prefer, 'I can't _believe_ you.' Or—"

"_Zaaaaack_." Cloud could feel his ears turning pink.

"That works, too." Zack took a swig of his beer. "You forgot to call me 'sir.' That's a step in the right direction."

"I don't think my platoon leader would think so."

"Eh. You're not in my direct chain of command. I don't think it'll cause any problems."

"I have a feeling," Cloud said, wonderingly, "that you're going to get me in _so_ much trouble."

"I hope so," Zack said, with great good cheer. "Into a lot of trouble, and then into SOLDIER, bet on it. Finish your beer."


End file.
